Monthly Archives: September 2005

So you want to be the fastest one around do ya?Yessir, and I want to turn S’quatch’s road bike into a sour pickle.You know what that’s gonna cost you right?I was thinking I could maybe swap you my neighbor’s goat hoof shot glass and a pint of aguadiente for it?No sir, that right there whatchu want is gonna cost you your soul.The whole thing? The whole thing.I got a lot of soul, maybe you only can use a little part of it, and I could like, keep most of it for myself?It don’t work like ‘dat.Well, then can you turn Powder’s Ellsworth into a Captain and Tennile record?Which one?It don’t matter, just pick one.I can do that.Then we may have ourselves a deal…I’m off to the Mississipi Delta today so don’t be looking for a new post tomorrow. I’m off to find the crossroads and see how I can make out. I figure with all the destruction over there the Devil is doing a brisk business and I may get away with a “No Soul Down-No Soul Payment until 2006!” kind of deal.

If you were going to the crossroads, to make yourself a deal (Not that the sweet rubes of the BRC would do such a thing) what would you be looking for? Would you trade your soul outright, or are you wily enough to trick him?

For that matter what did happen to Robert Johnson out there on that dark and lonely night?

Sometimes the difference between self-image and reality is frighteningly vast…We raced out to Munson to get a late lap in on Monday night. Having no after ride plans I didn’t bother to bring a pair of shorts, or my Chaco’s, or a t-shirt along. I was just geared up in the usual Man-o-tard ensemble. Frayed and semi-translucent Pearl Izumi bike shorts with a flatteringly large diaper-like chamois pad, too-tight (because I’m hugely muscled) blue jersey with the sleeves cut out for maximum pit exposure, zipper open to my navel, and your basic cleated shoes. Having just completed a pretty quick lap under harsh and sandy conditions I was pumped on testosterone and pretty much felt as sexy as I thought I looked.

After loading the bikes on the Montero we were stunned to find out it would not go into gear, or start. We were broke down. I called for back-up, but the LSU vs. Tennessee game was on so I didn’t expect a rapid response. While my buddy cursed his vehicle, rocked it back and forth, and manically turned the key, onoffonoffonoffonoffonoffonoff, I thought I would make myself useful and go find some survival supplies.

Now I’ve entered many a convenience store in my sweaty, lycra-wrapped best and thought nothing of it, usually too bonked to care, and this one was no different, except…

Was that a giggle I heard? A snort? As I pulled a 4 pack of Mountain sodas from the cooler I hollered at the counter, “Are you ladies laughing at me?” No answer, they were hushed and chastened. I approached the counter, leaving a drippy trail of slime, clip clopping like a show pony, nipples erect from the icy blast from the cooler. Two black women, unfamiliar with my cycling prowess barely suppressed their laughter as they tried to collect themselves for the transaction.

I spun, slow and Neil Diamond-like in a sexy arc, arms wide, chest out. “I know you aren’t laughing at all of this.” I ran my hands down my meaty frame, pressing more sweat to the floor like a squeegee. The younger lady,( pretty with elaborate nails, much weave, and nicely scented) couldn’t take it anymore and doubled over in- appreciation? Swooning passion? Hard to say which facet of my masculinity caused her to lose her professional composure. Poor thing.

The older woman-more portly, quite buxom- shook her head and clucked her tongue, obviously disapproving of so much skin on display (She probably prefers to leave a little to the imagination).

“I ride bikes”.

“Mmmmm,hmmmm, I bet you do.”

“I’m pretty fast.”

“OK.”

“The shoes clip onto the pedals, that’s why they make that sound, you know, like a show pony.”

“All right” (Standard southern black acknowledgement/dismissal).

By now the younger woman had excused herself, rapidly fanning her face as she walked away.

I awoke long before the sunrise this morning, fresh from a dream about a couple hipster Asian kids moving in and taking over. “You gotsta move that bike Yo, dat’s where we’re gonna put the turntables Yo!” I turned to The Daybreakers, by Louis L’Amour to lull me back to sleep, thinking “If I read one more time about Tom Sunday gunning down Chico Cruz I can rest easy.” (Because Chico Cruz is fast and a dangerous man with a six-shooter.)

By the time you read this the situation has been well taken care of, believe me.

My legs are stiff, and I’m incredibly thirsty. We rode Munson pretty hard last night. I’m rolling again today with a new recruit, so no time for rest. It is raining nice and steady this morning, well before the dawn. The blinking yellow school caution light is casting itself two blocks off the glare of a shiny, slick 10th Avenue. Pretty soon people will be skidding and sliding, coffee in hand, racing to the office.

I have a yearning to be in the mountains right now, this morning. Somewhere like Deep Creek, North Carolina, sitting by the icy river drinking coffee. Cleaning my drivetrain, airing my tires, packing a lunch, and more. Riding up until there is no more up, then riding down.

Ok, so thanks to a couple of the boys for calling me out on my attitude problem. I assure you I was serious about refraining from soliciting tech advice, but my motives were to keep the comments pure of techno-garble unless it’s about bikes, circus equipment, brewing techniques, or dart trajectories.

I dealt with the situation as I deal with many situations- I curse it, take a nap, and hope the world looks different when I wake up-and it does work.

S’quatch’s feelings were hurt when I failed to praise his Trek Pilot, so here goes… “Hey S’quatch, I think your road bike looks like a rifle. I hope it makes you faster- on the moutain bike, answering jeopardy questions, whatever-just faster. Oh, and happier”. How was that? Amen.

I can’t load a picture today, which may be an ominous sign of things to come, and if so, just let me find out the hard way, no unsolicited advice from geeks on this topic please. I just don’t care enough to learn some things. So, we’re moving on.

There is a new addition to the BRC. We have finally scored a professional rider. You can check out her site here at www.stefybau.com She will be riding with us through the winter in order to dominate the field of women’s motocross in May. Pretty cool huh?

S’quatch bought a road bike, and wrecked it the same day. You can check it out here at www.trekbikes.com It’s the silver 2005 Pilot or something like that. I really don’t want to contribute to the hype.

The trail is in excellent condition. Go ride it right now. It began raining as I finished, further packing down the surface. The sky is overcast, which means that conditions should hold up through tomorrow afternoon, but I wouldn’t wait if I were you.

Aside from the death, destruction, and mayhem, hurricanes are great. They force you to slumber as the barometric pressure falls, dragging on your very bones like a suit of lead. If anybody slept better than me last night I congratulate them.

Hurricanes also bring lots of rain, even when you are 400 miles away from the action. It has been dry as a parson’s throat around here for 3 weeks leaving everybody’s favorite trail sandy and slow.

As of last night, the drought has been broken. I should have gotten up and ridden straight to the trail this morning, but hey, I don’t do that sort of thing. It will be nice around 3:00 too.

We had a nice, normal evening last night due to the bearable temperature on the back porch. Riverboat and I threw darts. It wasn’t pretty- for him. I like to believe there is a correlation between my dart game and my trail prowess, and if it is true, I will be looking for a personal best out there today.

The whole time I’m pedaling I’ll be singing…

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round, the wheels on the bus go round and round, all the live long day!

This is Joe. If you live in town you probably know him. He owns my bike shop. He just barely squeaks over the wire as a Clydesdale, but I’m sure the council will approve him. You can say what you want about other bike shops in town, and all their cool bikes in stock and whatnot, but me? I stick with Joe, and of course his ace mechanic, Shins, and that other guy, the tall crazy one who gets the sandwiches.

Joe is a really decent guy, and that’s why God gave him a little bike shop on Lake Ella, where you can enjoy a rare breeze and watch the world drift by, carefree and lazy.

Joe works on the most awful hunks of crap ever to be churned off a Chinese assembly line, not because he likes it, but because he understands that people use their bikes for transportation. Not everybody is stressing over how they can possibly ride this weekend without getting that NEW FUCKIN’ BOTTOM BRACKET INSTALLED, OH DEAR GOD WHERE IS IT!!!

No, some people, mostly poor people, the mentally impaired, and chronic DUI-heads need their Roadmasters to master the road, their Free Spirits to roll free, and their Huffies to huff. While he may swear and groan like he’s losing his mind, he will get out his hammer, his vice grips, his length of pipe and make those pieces of shit work, again and again.

Conducting an actual transaction is very much like buying a goat in Bosnia. You may have to join in for a coffee and a cigarette before he is prepared to listen to your problem or accept your money. He may get your cranks pulled then become distracted by another customer for 45 minutes or a couple days. If you can’t handle that, then you probably ought to mosey on over to one of the other shops. We won’t miss you, no hard feelings.

There are people in this town, misfits of one kind or another, who visit Joe like he’s long lost family. They are often the type who are driven away from other businesses either outright, or through cool detachment. Sometimes it drives Joe crazy, other times he seems glad to see them, but he is never cruel or impatient with the Weird Harolds. They scream his name like a rock star. JOOOOoooooooeeeee!

He has been in business so long the shiny veneer has worn off much of the retail experience. You may have to project your voice over a blaring 20 minutes of “Alice’s Restaurant” or Sepulchura, or Crosby Stills Nash and Young, who knows. Profanity may occasionally slip out, but not the mean-spirited kind. “You need a stem?We got a fuckin’ stem for ya’.” Off it comes from someone else’s bike. Who knows how that works. It is all part of the Byzantine system in Joe’s head.

All I know is, Joe’s Bike Shop is one of those places that make Tallahassee a real class act.

So congratulations Joe, and don’t be pissed I put your picture on the internet.

My brother’s tiny garage apartment is an ice cave. A messy, dirty clothes riddled, full ashtrayed, bottle collecting wonderful ice cave. He is an AC Tech so it goes without saying his unit works efficiently. If you want to “bach’ it” (As in bachelor not Bach you overeducated rubes) for real, you go to the cave. The man sleeps on his leather couch every night for God’s sake.

I don’t find it to be gross or anything. It smells clean. There is no actual food garbage, and the bathroom is always pretty clean too. It just displays the evidence of a dude, living and wallowing in his own, deep undercover– dude space.

Thank God for it. He has Super cable, and a big T.V.

When I’m tired of pretending I am an esoteric Spartan warrior, I ease on down to 640 and a half for an easy chair, a Camel Ultralight, and some Ultimate Fighting.

Last night I brought dinner, pictured above. We aren’t poor, or broke, we just like some Ramen Noodles now and then. For 44 cents worth of MSG and dehydrated paste, I bought myself a round or two of Miller lites and a front row seat to oblivion. Between the two of us we must have burped 40 times. Was it the Ramen?